


The Clothes You Wear

by jtrobot



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (is the best bruce banner), Anxiety Attacks, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Bruce Banner, Tony Stark Has Issues, considering the subject matter, in which things go unexpectedly wrong (as always), meet the press, this turned out surprisingly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1466080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jtrobot/pseuds/jtrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're tip-toeing, Big Man. You need to strut."</p><p>Tony teaches Bruce a few of the intricacies of talking to the press. Bruce teaches Tony a few other things in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes You Wear

            When Bruce was called to a meeting about a week and a half after the battle that he still couldn’t believe had actually happened, the last thing he had on his mind was his _image_.

            “Excuse me?” he exclaimed once Fury mentioned the upcoming meeting with the press. The only other occupant of the SHIELD conference room was Tony Stark, lightly sitting atop the central glass table and resting his feet on a chair. The most plausible explanation for this ridiculous turn of events was that Stark was pulling some kind of prank; but how had he got Fury in on it? The director stood at the head of the table, looking as authoritative and formal as he did when the room was full and the world was in imminent danger of some sort. Certainly not like he was making a joke. Although, Bruce was pretty sure the man never looked like he was joking.

            “You heard what I said,” Fury replied, not one for repeating himself.

            “You’re asking _me_ to go chat up the paparazzi?”

            “Believe it or not, Banner, you’re the most qualified for the job,” Stark spoke up, beginning to tap his foot on the chair; whether it was out of impatience, or excitement, or the sheer euphoria that must have come from simply being Tony Stark, Bruce didn’t know.

            “Agents Barton and Romanoff can’t afford to have their identities freely publicized,” Fury began, and the sight of the director and Stark tag-teaming like this set a cold anxiety deep in his gut that he automatically pushed aside, before the Other Guy could make heads or tails of it. “Not in their line of work.”

            “And Cap’s not exactly trained in the art of political correctness, bless the poor bastard,” Tony added, and yes, it was definitely unnerving that they were finishing each other’s sentences.

            “And Thor?” Bruce asked, though he had already managed to thread together the answer.

            “Not too many people know he’s from the same world as Loki. Even fewer know they’re brothers. We’d like to keep it that way.” Fury steadily watched Bruce for a minute before continuing, as if to confirm some secret, internal theory. “SHIELD isn’t invincible. Yes, we can get away with a lot of things the average government agency can’t, but tearing up half of Manhattan in an alien battle isn’t one of them. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news lately, but the world is demanding answers.”

            “So you want me to go tell everyone everything about SHIELD,” Bruce commented, hating himself for the way he edged around the real reason—the obvious reason—that he was refusing this new mission. Everyone else did the exact same thing around him, which pissed him off more than most other things did, ironically. But a habit was hard to break, he supposed.

            “C’mon, Banner, this is basic sociology,” Tony said, hopping off the table. “When you have the world demanding answers, chances are the world doesn’t actually know the questions. They just want us to give them _something_. Those reporters, they’re all _terrible_ at their jobs. They’re not interested in what really matters, but they _think_ they are. Trust me; nothing you’ll tell them will compromise the integrity of Fury’s precious organization here.”

            Bruce allowed himself a carefully calculated moment to fume before letting out a sigh and pulling his hands out of his pockets to throw them in the air.

            “Why can't--” he began to say, but stopped when Fury's cell rang. The director picked it up immediately and fixedly stared at Bruce while grunting several affirmatives to the voice on the other end. He hung up and put the phone away with a swish of his coat and began to head out of the room. For a moment Bruce thought he was going to leave without another word, and rather naively considered that he may have gotten out of this next assignment of his, but Fury halted in the doorway.

            “I've already spoken to several major news sources. They'll be outside Stark Tower at noon tomorrow. As will you both.” And he left.

            “So,” Tony began, smiling a little too widely to be comforting. “First day of school. You excited?”

            “This is a terrible idea.” Bruce was grateful to see that Tony respected him at least enough to wipe the smile off of his face, instead looking up at the ceiling and blowing out a lengthy breath of air.

            “Look, sometimes you gotta take baby steps,” he said, glancing at Bruce before fiddling around with the phone he slipped out of his pocket, “and sometimes you gotta take normal, well-adjusted human-sized steps.”

            “So that's your angle? That this is for my own good?”

            Tony stopped what he was doing, and put the phone away. He slowly looked back up, and walked towards Bruce, giving him his full attention for the first time.

            “Alright. The Hulk can’t be annoyedout of his cage, right?”

            “If he could, I don’t think _I’d_ be the one standing here talking to you right now.”  
            “Fair point. But Bruce—I’ve done this before. I know what to expect. And I wouldn’t let Fury put you through this if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident you could do it. Mmkay?”

            There was this strange side-effect to Stark’s tendency to turn everything into a joke, Bruce noticed, that when he actually was being earnest about something, he truly meant it. At his worst, Tony was an asshole. At his best, he was one of the kindest, most trustworthy men Bruce had ever met. Not that he had much experience with kind and trustworthy men, but still.

            “If you say so,” Bruce sighed, and Stark lit up immediately, a huge grin bursting onto his face as he roughly patted his friend on his back.

            “That’s what I like to hear,” he said loudly. “Now you want to get lunch? I want lunch. Chinese.”

~

            The next day Stark met him in the lobby, exactly twenty minutes late.

            “Banner! You’re early,” he called out nonchalantly as he left the elevator. The man was dressed in an impeccably tailored white suit, with gaudy, silver-framed Gucci sunglasses shading his eyes and matching his Rolex. Bruce grimaced and shook his head with a mixture of mock and true irritation that only Stark could instill.

            Bruce couldn’t fathom how Stark maintained this double-life. To be just as comfortable and confident in his Sunday best, chatting it up with some late night talk show host and flirting with the other guests as he was making engineering history in his basement workshop, wearing machine grease, rubber gloves and a ratty old AC/DC t-shirt. When faced with his own double life, Bruce had decided to run away from both of them. He never questioned whether that decision was the right one to make. That is, not until very recently.

            “You know me,” Bruce replied. “Always so irresponsible when it comes to being punctual.” Stark patted Bruce’s shoulder and gave him a wide grin—public persona tacked on as neatly as his charcoal tie—while pulling his glasses off to disapprovingly look him up and down.

            “You do know there’ll be photos,” Stark commented, and his eyes were expressive enough for Bruce to immediately understand what he was getting at. “They’ll be all over the newspapers, the tabloids—hell, you never know when they might broadcast your picture into space. I’m still waiting on my chance for that one, but it’s gotta be happening soon.” Bruce sighed heavily and stepped back, gesturing at himself. At his simple, somewhat worn-out trousers, his rumpled mauve dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up so it wasn’t very obvious that they were just a little too long. It was a decent look, normally—but standing next to superstar Tony Stark, Bruce was fully aware that he might as well have been wearing an old potato sack, potatoes included.

            “Stark, not everyone can be you,” he answered after a moment.

            “Of course not; I’m one of a kind. You shouldn’t be me. But you absolutely should _not_ try to be you, either. You know what they want to see out there? Superheroes. They don’t want Banner. They want The Most Powerful Man in the World.”

            “I think they’d change their minds pretty quickly if they ever met the guy,” Bruce replied dryly.

            “Don’t be so sure, buddy,” Stark answered. “C’mon, let’s get you some decent duds. The cameras can wait.”

~

The clothes actually made him feel worse. At least before he changed it was obvious he didn’t belong here, and he wasn’t trying to fool anyone. Now…he hated lying. He couldn’t pretend this new suit didn’t make him look better, like he had his shit together, but he wasn’t so sure that posturing would hold up under the relentless gaze of the media. The fact that Tony’s clothes seemed to fit him better than his own was insignificant.

They were now standing at the side exit of the main lobby, just inside so that the impatient chatter of reporters outside was within earshot but the words themselves were indistinguishable.

            “Tony, I really appreciate your help, but I’m still not sure if we should go through with this,” Bruce said as Tony was about to open the door to the chaos. Tony halted and let go of the doorknob, allowing a lengthy pause to slip by before turning back around to face Bruce.

            “You look great,” he said, and continued before Bruce could interject. “You look like you feel great. Therefore, you feel great. That’s my secret, my trick, and it’ll work for you, too.” He smiled a little as Bruce forced himself to stop wringing his hands together and stuck them in his pockets instead. “In a few hours this’ll all be over and you’ll be wondering why you were making such a big deal out of it.” As he was saying this, he reached out and straightened Bruce’s bowtie. Bruce recalled spending at least five minutes upstairs, stalling by doing just that, and was about to swat him away until Tony swiftly pulled him in, one hand still on the tie and one pressing on the back of his neck and kissed him, softly but purposefully, and too quickly for Bruce to do anything but let it happen. Tony let go and stepped back, checking his watch. Bruce felt vaguely unaware of whether his feet were actually touching the ground.

“Ready?” he asked calmly. The only evidence that convinced Bruce that he hadn’t just wildly hallucinated was in the way Tony was now very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

            “I hope there weren’t any cameras in the window,” was all Bruce could think to say.

            “I hope there were. C’mon,” Tony replied, and opened the door.

~

As they stepped out, Bruce was initially startled by the camera flashes that shone vividly even in the afternoon sun. Even though most of the pictures that were already being snapped were taken on iPhones, there was still somehow enough flash photography to make Bruce reconsider what he thought was just for show in old moves.

“I’ll admit, I’m not an expert on these things, but this seems less like a press conference and more like a…”

“Not a press conference. This is much more casual. Call it a press _conversation_.” Tony had walked out at Bruce’s side, one arm flinging a peace sign into the air as if by reflex. The crowd ate it up.

            And that’s what it was—a crowd. No conference to be seen here; rather than some sort of mediated Q&A as Bruce had half-expected, it was just them, preparing to descend the three or so steps from the Tower to the plaza, and the rest, a wave radiating curiosity energy, standing behind an invisible line that _someone_ must have very firmly told them not to cross.

“This is casual…?” Bruce questioned under his breath. He tried to smile faintly and glanced at the man on his right. _Be like Stark._ The absurdity of the thought actually cheered him minutely, and he absently counted his heart rate while scanning the area. One familiar face stuck out on the far left side of the conference, blending in with a fashionable jacket and scarf, but her alert gaze and discreet earpiece betrayed her occupation. What was her name? Hill—that was Agent Hill, clearly supervising the situation. She saw him looking, and nodded curtly. It occurred to Bruce precisely what was happening, and he laughed softly.

“What’s up, Big Guy?” Tony asked, looking askance. Bruce gestured towards Hill, now looking straight into the crowd, and Tony acted accordingly, glancing as quickly as possible.

“First time I’ve ever felt better knowing I was being watched,” he commented, and an oddly reckless feeling surged through him momentarily, just long enough for him to grin and wave broadly at the reporters. The flashes increased in frequency; Pavlov’s dogs, sat before him. Tony raised his eyebrows and patted Bruce roughly on the shoulders.

“Good,” he said, impressed. “Now, step two.” And he dipped into the crowd, guiding Bruce along with him. The reporters themselves weren’t overwhelming; they were just people, overall, and he’d dealt with more frantic crowds hitchhiking through Kolkata, but the persistence of their harsh, interrogative voices was what made Bruce tap Tony on the elbow and tell him to hold on, just a second, while he gathered himself. Tony stopped immediately, turning halfway to once again stand at Bruce’s side, and pointed at a young woman in front of him, with a phone held out not as a camera, but as a microphone. Immediately, all of the voices around them were silenced while more phones and actual mics were held out, synchronized in some unspoken choreography that apparently everyone there but Bruce was familiar with.

            “Mr. Stark,” she began.

            “Please, call me Tony,” Tony cut in, an intimidatingly sharp grin at odds with his smooth words. The reporter blushed, nonplussed, but kept on.

            “You’ve historically never been considered to be a ‘team player’. What changed?” Tony shrugged, and Bruce watched him intently. It was a good question.

            “Pay grade,” he said, and gave a patient moment for his audience to laugh accordingly before continuing. “These people, the _Avengers_ or whatever, are incredible men and women, capable of incredible things. Anyone who would pass up an opportunity to be a part of that is, frankly, not very smart. I think I’m pretty smart, personally.” The energy around them rose again, a signal that the question was answered satisfactorily, and Tony once again pointed, and the process repeated itself.

This next reporter Tony selected—an older gentleman, a professional disconnect in his attention somewhat at odds with the frenetic drive of his peers—turned to Bruce, and his heart seemed to trip over itself.

            “Mr. Banner--”

            “It's—it's Doctor,” he corrected automatically, then winced as he realized the first impression he just gave was that of an asshole arguing semantics. “Sorry.”

            “Rule Number One,” Tony muttered as he invited the reporters to chuckle with him at Bruce, “never apologize for anything.” He spoke up. “You were saying?”

            “ _Dr._ Banner. My question is similar; you’ve been off-the-map for years—what made you come back?”

            It certainly wasn’t the question he was expecting. Bruce began to wring his hands together again without even thinking about it. He tried to block out the anticipatory silence pressuring him and weighted his options before speaking.

            “I like to travel to find…” he trailed off, listening to his own voice saying such stupid things. It’s not that he wasn’t used to having so many people paying attention to him; it’s that they weren’t usually paying attention to his words. “I try to be places where I can do the most good. When I heard about what was happening here, in New York, I didn’t have a—I didn’t give myself a choice. I had to try to help, however I could.” He couldn’t gauge the reaction his answer caused, aside from another nod and grin from Stark; it was as though his words had been absorbed by the media, to be processed and analyzed at a later point in time, when it was written on a screen somewhere. As for now, he may as well have been speaking to Tony and Tony alone.

            They pressed on, sometimes stopping to talk to the surrounding faces, and sometimes moving to address someone in particular farther back in the crowd, and sometimes, given the way Tony would put his head down and backtrack, to avoid someone in particular ahead of them. Bruce wasn’t aware of how long they had been out there; all he knew was that even though he never hit the point where he didn’t need to stop and think and process what he would say, they were beginning to get repeat questions, and Tony was always there to put a word or two in whenever he got stuck. Most amazingly, either because of some sort of threat Agent Hill had issued before the conference began, or because it was possible the world simply wasn’t awful, nobody asked anything too invasive. At least, not at first. Maybe they had just been afraid.

“Isn't he dangerous?” one woman boldly asked Tony, with a couple of her colleagues murmuring a shared sentiment at her side.

            “Only as dangerous as any other mild-mannered biochemist with honorary degrees from three Ivy League universities,” Tony supplied.

            “I did actually knock over a test tube the other day,” Bruce added with a sly smile.

            “That’s _right._ Glass everywhere. Serious safety hazard.” And they moved on.

~

When the crowd began to thin out, Bruce nudged Tony.

“What’s up, buttercup,” Tony replied, and Bruce rolled his eyes.

“Looks like things are wrapping up…?” he trailed off as he checked his watch and realized they had only been out there for about an hour.

“They’re getting sick of us, but there’s still a good amount of press still here to take care of. It’d be faster if we split up.” And before Bruce could protest, his friend had left his side, off to chat up some blonde with a notepad. Suddenly, the number of people around him didn’t seem so manageable. And just as suddenly, Bruce connected the dots; the reporters hadn’t been avoiding the gritty questions out of fear of Hill or the Hulk, but out of fear of Stark. That was his running theory as he found himself bombarded with statements that were now beginning to sound awfully like accusations.

“How are we supposed to know we’re safe right now? _Are_ we safe right now?”

“I—to be frank, nobody’s ever _completely_ safe, but we’re doing our best to detect and manage any potential threats.“ The woman who had posed the question continued to hold her recorder out, one eyebrow raised. Bruce shrugged helplessly, acknowledging that they both knew his answer was ninety percent bullshit, and turned away from her, into another barrage.

            “Several New York-based companies are beginning to offer 'Hulk insurance'. Do you have a comment?”

“That sounds—I’m sorry that—” Rule Number One, gone, but now the questions were coming faster than he could answer them, and as Bruce turned again to try to find a way out, he was convinced they weren’t really there for him to answer anyway, not anymore.

“Rumor has it that you failed where Captain America succeeded. Is there any animosity between yourself and your teammate?” _Stay detached, Banner_ became the new mantra, but it was hard to repeat that over and over to himself while trying to formulate proper responses, ones that sounded reasonably plausible, and yet didn’t incriminate himself, or SHIELD, or the other Avengers, and at this point he wasn’t even sure if he was forming complete sentences.

“What would you say to the families of those who…”

“Tony,” this was Bruce posing a question of his own, his voice searching for the one familiar face through the crowd that suddenly wasn’t a crowd any longer; it was a swarm, of civilians, of targets, and, “ _Tony, do you hear me?_ ” and he could call for Tony all he wanted but nobody could control this but himself so he closed his eyes and began to breathe, and count, and breathe again, but they would still be there when he opened his eyes—and he opened his eyes—and the silliest thing happened. He saw his shoes. Well, not _his_ shoes, but the ones Tony had lent him. In absolutely no universe would Bruce have picked them out on his own, as they were absurdly gaudy, a dark cranberry-colored leather that glinted almost purple in the light of the flashbulbs. They didn't fit quite right, but he had to admit, they looked great on him anyway. They made him look—

            “ _Powerful_ ,” he said out loud, and took one moment to be within himself, to fully take the reins back, before holding his head up and smiling into the nearest camera. “Everything's under control.”

            The reporters, understandably unaware of the inner epiphany that just occurred, only pushed forward with more gusto than before, but Bruce looked them over coolly.

            “I won’t be answering any more questions today,” he said in what he hoped was a strong, commanding tone. “Thank you,” he added, and smiled in delight when the phones were lowered and his accusers backed away. He took his glasses off and carefully cleaned them on the lapels of his suit, but when he put them back on his smile faded. The camera flashes were still going off—they weren’t backing away from him. They were moving toward something else.

            “Tony?” he wondered, just barely aloud. He exchanged eye contact with one young man who was still dawdling at his side, who promptly broke the gaze and ran towards where the crowd was reconvening. Bruce took a few faltering steps in the same direction, and yes, there was definitely something happening that he couldn’t see over the heads of the onlookers. He briefly searched for Agent Hill, to no avail; either she had left after being assured that Bruce wasn’t going to make a scene, or was already grabbing backup for whatever danger was unfolding. Bruce wasn’t sure which scenario he disliked more, so he continued to the mob with increased urgency.

He pushed his way through several stubborn reporters to reach the center of the circle, and his immediate interpretation of the situation was that Tony was drowning. The man, the cool, collected, careless billionaire was doubled over, struggling to breathe, and Bruce impulsively crouched down to meet him and loosened Tony's goddamn necktie. As he did so, Tony reached up and clung onto Bruce's wrist, gasping for air. And there it was; he could feel the familiar poison beginning to sting through his veins, but he choked it back as best he could because this was important, this was _Tony, this is not for you_. Blinded for just a moment, and acting before he could process what his body was doing, he looked back up and shouted at the crowd to get away. The cameras lowered, and began to disappear for good this time, and Bruce could sense they were about as shocked as he was that his voice had emerged louder than his lungs should have been able to manage. Making the executive decision to process that later, he pulled all of his focus away from what was happening around him and put his hands on Tony's shoulders.

            “Tony?” he tried, but the other man still had his head down, breathing shallowly. “Tony, look at me. It's Bruce, okay?” It took a couple tries, but Tony managed to pick himself up somewhat, and hold eye contact.

            “I don't—something's wrong. What's wrong—” he gasped, eyes wild. Bruce had never seen him like this. Not in person, not in the magazines or the TV interviews, and he glanced at the gray tie he had discarded in a panic a minute ago, looking deflated on the pavement a few feet away.

            “You're safe. Everyone's fine. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths. I got you.” Tony nodded, looking for all the world like holding Bruce's stare and breathing at the same time was the hardest thing in the world. Bruce nodded minutely, acknowledging that it was. He then cleared his mind and tried to take the deepest, steadiest breaths he could manage, not just for Tony but for himself as well.

            He wasn't sure how long they went on like this before Tony fell back on his heels, sitting down and closing his eyes.

“Always have to be the center of attention, don't you, Stark?” Bruce said, his relief apparent in the breathlessness of his words.

            “God,” Tony spoke, and wincing when his voice cracked. He continued, his voice rising with urgency, “what the hell was that? Was I poisoned? J, get me records of all the—“

            “Tony.” Bruce cut in firmly. “I’m not that kind of doctor, but I certainly know a panic attack when I see one.” Tony just stared at him incredulously, as if trying to determine whether to feel insulted. At this point, Agent Hill approached them, clearing her throat to make Tony start and look up at her.

            “You two had better get inside unless you want to invite the press back. Mr. Stark, are you okay to stand?”

            “I think so,” he replied, but glanced back at Bruce first as if to check if he actually was. “I’ll be fine. I gotta get out of this suit.”

 ~

            He got out of the suit. And made himself a drink, once back in the safety of the Tower and its expansive open bar. Bruce peered out the window cautiously.

            “Still a few vultures out there,” he commented. “Looks like they’re camping out.”

            “Jarvis, tint please,” Tony replied promptly, and the sunlight ceased to filter into the vast room while the overhead lights clicked on. “Anxiety though, really? No offense, but _hey_ —” he protested when Bruce swiftly intercepted the whiskey from Tony’s still-trembling hand and dumped it down the sink.

            “That’s the initial hypothesis. And it’s not something alcohol’s going to help, trust me.” Bruce rinsed out the glass thoroughly and filled it with tap water, handing it back to a deflated Tony. He pulled up a seat at the bar and Tony begrudgingly joined him, taking tentative sips as if his immune system wasn’t used to drinking anything less than 90-proof.

            “Can’t act on a hypothesis, Mr. Science,” he retorted lamely.

            “It’s _Doctor_ Science to you,” Bruce said, chuckling. “J, what do you think?”

            “Given the data I’ve collected monitoring Mr. Stark’s blood pressure and heart rate, I agree with your diagnosis,” Jarvis chimed in as Tony unleashed a string of curses and “are you kidding me”s under his breath.

            “You know what, _thank you_ Jarvis, thanks for making me feel like a lab rat. In my own home. I appreciate it, I _really_ do.” Tony shook his head at Bruce, who couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. He gathered himself enough to speak under the weight of Tony’s increasingly murderous gaze.

            “It’s just,” he started, another laugh bubbling out, “that you’re the one who ended up walking a mile in _my_ shoes today,” and as Tony turned bright red, he buried his head in his arms, shaking with the most uncontrollable mirth he’d had in longer than he could remember.

            “That may be the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” Tony announced, though smiling now.

            “Awful,” Bruce agreed, taking a deep breath. They sat in silence for a moment; well, near-silence, because Tony had developed the habit of tapping a fingernail on his glass of water, and muffled conversation between adamant reporters fighting for the headline of next week’s gossip mag could be heard beyond the darkened windows. Tony finished his water, then knocked the bottom of the glass on the counter abruptly, making Bruce jump slightly.

“So,” Tony began, “while I am, according to your diagnosis, at my most vulnerable, and you are therefore psychologically predisposed not to hate me for saying this, I want to call you out on something.” Bruce raised his eyebrows. “You tried to use the Other Guy as an excuse to get out of this, didn’t you?”

            “It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it,” Bruce chuckled. “Didn’t work, though.” He sat for a minute, debating between leaving or speaking, and settled on the latter. He’d already been pushed out of his comfort zone at least once that day; might as well keep going.

            “While you’re at your most vulnerable, and therefore most likely to give me a straight answer,” he started, slowly, and focusing on the way Tony’s face was wrinkling in amusement, “what exactly happened before we went outside?”

            “What do you think happened?”

Bruce sighed. There was no way he was actually having this conversation with Tony Stark, of all people. Aliens—yes, he could believe that. Thunder gods—okay. His current outfit that was worth more than anything he’s ever had in his bank account, yeah, sure, whatever, but this was _ridiculous_.

            “I think you tried to shock me into taking my mind off the press conference so I wouldn’t freak out and do something stupid.”

            “Looks like they don’t call you a genius for nothing.”

Bruce hesitated, then took Tony’s empty glass to the sink and refilled it. Then he hesitated again.

            “Was that all it was?” he asked. His voice came out hoarse, just above a whisper, and he wished it hadn’t sounded so feeble. Tony took a sip of the water, losing his gaze in the depths of the glass.

            “DId you want it to be more?” he asked back, slowly, tapping a finger on the glass with increasing frequency as he continued, losing his cool when Bruce stayed silent. “Because, to me, I don’t, I’ve had—trust me, it’s not gonna—“ and he stopped, because Bruce was burning inside as if he had knocked down that shot rather than pouring it out, and was tired of acting like himself, and took the opportunity to be the Most Powerful Man in the World and make Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, shut the hell up. In short—he kissed him like it was a challenge, rough enough for Tony to fling his arms out and around Bruce for support, and long enough to lose himself in the way Tony’s hair gel was sticking to his fingers and how he still managed to taste like whiskey, bitter and strong and very, very bad for him.

            “Is that a ‘yes’?” Tony asked breathlessly, once Bruce had sat back down unsteadily, feeling rebellious and bewildered and more in need of a drink than he’d been since college. He could almost hear the Other Guy rumbling with surprise within his veins, and glanced back up at Tony.

            “Only if I can keep these shoes.”

            “It’s a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you for reading! <3


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